By the time we finally found Villa Luz, I was already on my third packet of travel sweets, my partner was refusing to speak to the sat nav, and our youngest had been sick in a carrier bag somewhere near Santa Gertrudis. Ibiza, I thought. The glamorous island of DJs and superyachts. And here we were, a family of four in a dented Fiat Punto, smelling faintly of mints and regret.

The mishap, if you can call it that, happened about twenty minutes from the villa. I had insisted on taking the scenic route. "Look at the countryside," I'd said, waving at some olive trees. "Much nicer than the main road." What followed was forty minutes of increasingly narrow lanes, one angry goat, and a moment where I genuinely thought we'd driven into someone's patio. When we finally emerged onto a proper road, I was too embarrassed to admit defeat. So I did it again. Took another wrong turn. Ended up at a dead end by a field of donkeys. My partner looked at me with the particular expression she saves for when I've promised to put up shelves and haven't.

The thing about Villa Luz, though, is that it rewards the weary. We pulled through the gates and suddenly the bickering stopped. Not because we'd matured as people, but because there was a pool glittering in the afternoon sun, and beyond it nothing but pine trees and the distant shimmer of the sea. The villa itself is that perfect Ibiza style, all whitewashed walls and terracotta tiles, the sort of place that makes you feel like you should be wearing linen even if you've only brought football shirts and swimming trunks.

Our eldest was in the pool before I'd turned off the engine. I don't think his feet touched the ground. I stood there with the car door open, still holding the sick bag, and felt something shift. The journey had been ridiculous. I'd been ridiculous. But here was this quiet corner of the island, barely a few miles from San Rafael with its proper shops and restaurants, yet feeling completely removed from anywhere you need to be impressive.

The first evening, we didn't venture far. There was a barbecue area by the pool, and we cooked some sausages from the little supermarket in town, ate them at the outdoor table while the kids splashed about until their lips went blue. I kept looking around, waiting for the catch. Too quiet? Too isolated? But no. It was just right. The sort of place where you remember that holidays don't need to be about ticking off sights or chasing the next thing. You can sit with a lukewarm beer and watch your children discover that jumping into water never gets old.

I thought about those wrong turns on the way here. How I'd let my stubbornness turn a simple drive into an ordeal. Standing by the pool as the light faded, I realised I do this more than I'd like. Make things complicated. Refuse help. Pretend I know where I'm going when I absolutely don't. Villa Luz, in its unassuming way, seemed to suggest an alternative. Stop. Breathe. The donkeys are behind you now.

The next morning I woke early, made coffee in the simple kitchen, and took it outside. The pool was still, the air smelled of pine and jasmine from the garden, and somewhere a cockerel was having opinions. I sat there in my ridiculous holiday shirt and felt genuinely peaceful for the first time in months. No clubs, no crowds, no need to be anywhere except exactly where I was.

We did explore later, of course. The local beaches, the market at Las Dalias, a proper meal in Santa Eulalia where nobody was sick in a bag. But those first twenty-four hours at Villa Luz set the tone. This was to be a holiday about small things done slowly. About letting my son teach me a card game by the pool instead of rushing off to the next attraction. About my partner laughing at me again, properly this time, as I attempted to light the barbecue and nearly lost an eyebrow.

I still maintain the scenic route had character. But I'm quietly glad we arrived frazzled and foolish. It made the stillness of Villa Luz feel earned. And it reminded me that sometimes the best thing you can do on holiday is simply stop pretending you know what you're doing, and let the place do its work.